franchised Hollywood the civic fathers lusted for would emerge. Right now, glitz coexisted with sleaze in an uneasy balance.
A few miles away, north, in the hills, was the Hollywood sign, where a starlet had ended her life decades ago, and China Maranga’s body had been left to rot. I didn’t suggest driving up there, and neither did Milo. Too long ago to matter.
We crawled to Vine Street. He said, “Erna. Another soul expropriated.”
I said, “A user. That’s what this is all about.”
29
Encino. Petra digested the details of Milo’s call. The E. Murphy ID meant the redhead’s murder would end up in her basket, too.
She phoned Eric Stahl and filled him in.
“Okay,” he said, in that infuriating, flat voice.
“You going to keep watching Kevin?” she said.
“Probably a waste of time.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t think he’ll be coming by soon,” said Stahl. “Whatever you want.”
“I’m still watching his parents’ house. No action yet, but I want to stick with it. Meantime, I think we should start delving into Erna Murphy’s history. If you really think Kevin’s crib is a zero, feel free to start on that.”
“Sure.”
Silence.
Petra waited him out. He said, “Anywhere you want me to start?”
“The usual data banks- hold on, a woman just drove up to the house, could be Kevin’s mother- doesn’t look like a happy camper- just do the usual, Eric, I’ll talk to you later.”
She remained in her Accord and watched the woman climb out of her baby blue Corvette. The low-slung, covered thing she and Stahl had seen during their first visit to Franklin Drummond’s home.
The red Honda was registered to Anna Martinez- an Hispanic maid who appeared to live in; the other three vehicles were registered to Franklin Drummond. His daily drive was the gray Baby Benz, the ‘Vette was the missus’s toy, no one seemed to bother with the white Explorer. Maybe spare wheels for the two younger sons when they visited from college.
Kevin drove cheap wheels. Not the favored child.
The woman flipped her hair, wiggled her butt, and alarm-locked the Corvette. Middle-aged, tall, skinny, long- legged. Big, thick features. Homely, but in a not-unsexy way. The hair was a bright, orange helmet- same color as Erna Murphy’s, isn’t
Fuck-me shoes. Aging bimbo?
Was Kevin’s mommy doing someone other than Kevin’s daddy?
Petra watched her walk up to the front door, fool in her Gucci purse, remove a ring of keys.
Definitely Kevin’s mom. He hadn’t inherited his lanky frame from fireplug Franklin.
The car, the heels, the rest of it said Mama liked to party. A woman in touch with her sexuality. Toss that into the family mix and Petra could only imagine what Kevin’s childhood had been like.
This afternoon, Mama looked miserable. Tense. Tight neck, croquet wicket mouth. She dropped the key ring, bent, and retrieved it.
Petra got out of her car as the woman’s key aimed at the lock. Made it to the woman’s side before she made contact and twisted.
The woman turned. Petra flashed the badge.
“I have nothing to say to you.” Smoker’s voice. Tobacco mixed with Chanel 19 emanated from the redhead’s clothing.
“You are Mrs. Drummond,” said Petra.
“I’m Terry Drummond.” Fear in the voice.
“Could you spare a moment to talk about Kevin?”
“No way,” said Terry Drummond. “My husband warned me you’d be by. I have no obligation to talk to you.”
Petra smiled. The rhinestones on Terry’s shirt formed the crude outline of two terriers. Kissing. Sweet. “You certainly don’t, Mrs. Drummond. But I’m not here to persecute you.”
Terry Drummond’s key arm tightened. “Call it what you want. I’m going inside.”
“Ma’am, Kevin hasn’t been seen for nearly a week. As a mother, I’d think you’d be concerned.”
Studying the woman for a hint that Kevin had made contact.
Tears welled up in Terry Drummond’s eyes. Soft brown eyes, flecked with gold. Gorgeous eyes, really, despite the too-generous application of shadow and mascara. Petra revised her appraisal. Despite the thick features, Terry was more than attractive; even in her anxiety she exuded oodles of sensuality. As a young woman, she’d probably been dead-on sexy.
What would it be like to have a mother like that?
Petra knew nothing about mothers; hers had died giving birth to her.
She relaxed her posture, gave Terry Drummond time to think. Terry wore big gold jewelry, a three-carat rock on her ring finger. Up close the Gucci bag looked real.
Petra saw her as someone whose body heat and flashy looks had snagged an up-and-coming lawyer. Someone who’d climbed a few notches socially, probably given up whatever entry-level career she’d had, raised three boys, immersed herself in suburban motherhood, only to see her oldest son turn out… different.
Now she was terrified. Kevin hadn’t phoned home.
She said, “It’s got to be worrying, ma’am. No one’s saying Kevin’s guilty of anything, he’s just someone we need to talk to. He could be in danger. Think about it: Has he ever disappeared like this before? Don’t you think it’s important that we find him?”
Terry Drummond bit back tears. “
“How long has it been, ma’am?”
Terry shook her head. “That’s all I’m going to say.”
“Do you have any idea why we’re interested in him?”
“Something to do with murder. Which is ridiculous. Kevin’s gentle.” Terry’s voice rose on the last word, and she flinched. Petra had a sense someone had used it as an insult when referring to Kevin.
“I’m sure he is, Mrs. Drummond.”
“Then why are you hounding us?”
“Not trying to, ma’am. I’m sure you know Kevin better than anyone. You care about him more deeply than anyone. So if he does get in touch, you’ll offer him good advice.”
Terry Drummond cried. “I don’t need this. I don’t need this one bit. If my idiot brother-in-law hadn’t finked on Kevin, I wouldn’t have to be dealing with this- why don’t you look at
“Randolph?”
“His wife and child, the dirty drunk,” snarled Terry. “Frank was always telling Randy to stop drinking. He nearly ruined us- the lawsuits. It’s only cause Frank’s so smart that he managed to climb back up to the top. So you can see why Randy’d have it in for us.”
